lay a lily on her grave
by whoyouwere
Summary: There's a legend, around here. It's about a scarecrow, a green-skinned girl, and a hill of lilies. Very post-musical.


**I'm certain people have been inspired by the line "no one lays a lily on their grave" already. Consider this my attempt at breaking people's hearts and then fixing them back up, set hundreds of years after Wicked events.**

* * *

It's late afternoon, and the rain is coming down. Not as heavily as it did before, of course, thank Oz for that, but Verrus is an old man and his immune system's not like it used to be, he's not taking any risks, especially not with his restaurant/inn to think about.

He sighs, catching Lauren's attention as she wipes down the tables with a cloth.

"Something wrong, old man?" she asks.

"Nothing," he says. "Just thinking, that's all. Go back to work, Lo, you're off in a few minutes."

"I thought I was off in two hours," she says.

He hobbles over and pats her on the head. "I'm closing up early, kid," he tells her. "Go home, before the rain changes its mind and decides to come down heavier than it is right now."

She blinks at him, surprised. "You're sure, sir?" she asks. "I mean, what if someone comes in?"

"In this weather?" he snorts. "I doubt it. Go on, little lady, go back to work. In five minutes, you're home free."

* * *

She leaves after ten minutes. Good Lauren, really—sensible girl, got her head on straight. Verrus is glad he hired her, when she came to town and he was just reeling after his wife's death. Still, though, he wishes she wouldn't exert herself so much, doing so many things for him that he could do by himself, old as he is.

He sighs, then pushes himself up off his chair and to his feet. Time to officially close up, he supposes—it's the one thing he absolutely insists on doing himself.

He's hobbling to the door when someone pushes through it, swearing fitfully and shaking out his umbrella. Verrus can hear the young man grumbling something about women, and his mouth twitches up in a smile. Looks like Lauren's made an impression on somebody, on her way out.

"You're lucky you came in when you did," he says, and the man's gaze snaps up to meet his. "We're just about to close."

"But it's late afternoon," the man says.

"It's raining out there, and I wanted to make sure my only employee made it home safe," Verrus replies, limping past the man to flip the sign on the door. "I've got a feeling it's going to come down heavy soon."

"You'd be right," the man says, taking off his coat and hanging it up on the coat rack. "The weather guy said you were in for a storm, and I was hoping to beat it."

"You did it, then," Verrus says, as he moves over to the table by the window and pulls out a chair. "Have a seat, I'll cook you something. Are you allergic to eggs, by any chance?"

The man snorts, as he takes a seat. "No, but I'm not a big fan of poultry," he says. "Have you got a salad, though?"

"Vegetarian, aren't we?" Verrus chuckles, making his way to the kitchen and ignoring the ache in his hip, and opens the refrigerator to take out one of Lauren's ready-made salads.

The man nods. "And also a bit paranoid," he adds. "I mean, who's to say that the meat didn't come from a mute Animal?"

"You've got a point," Verrus admits, as he emerges from the kitchen carrying a salad. "My wife was pretty big on Animals, before she died. So's my employee. Myself, I don't mind them, they don't mind me." He shrugs, and deposits the bowl in front of the man. "You mind if I sit down?" he asks. "My hip's not what it used to be."

"Oh, no, I don't. In fact, here." The man stands up, moves quickly over and pulls the chair out for him.

Verrus smiles. "Thank you," he says, and settles in. "What brings you into town?"

The man's already sitting down and starting to dig in when he asks, so Verrus waits for him to swallow before he answers, "Unfinished business."

"You've been here before?"

"My father lived here," he says. "He always said he wanted to come back here and bring me along, but time killed that dream. He asked me to come here, and well," and here he waves his hand out the window, "here I am."

"Your father was a wise man, then," Verrus says, and glances out the window. "Thank Oz they laid the lilies today," he murmurs.

"Lilies?" the man asks, his mouth full.

"Look out the window and tell me what you see."

He does, swallowing his food, and says, "There's a hill covered in lilies."

Verrus nods. "We call it Lily Hill," he says. "Don't start, I know it isn't the most creative name there is, but it's one of the most beautiful things there is in this town."

"So people plant lilies on this Lily Hill?" the man asks. "Why?"

Verrus leans back in his chair. "It's a very long story," he says. "Nearly a legend, around these parts, in fact. But first, look out the window, tell me what you see on Lily Hill besides the lilies."

The man looks out, and says, "There's a tree. And—is that a grave?"

"Can you read the name?"

The man's silent, then he says, in a voice little more than a whisper, "It says, 'Fae'."

"Did your father ever tell you the story of Lily Hill?" Verrus asks.

The man shakes his head. "He always said he'd tell me all the stories when we got here," he explains. "He never got the chance to."

"Well, thank your lucky stars that old Verrus is here to take up your father's storytelling mantle, then," Verrus says. "You see, around here, there's a legend..."

* * *

Once upon a time, just out of town, there lived a Scarecrow and a green-skinned woman.

_("A Scarecrow? Like the one that accompanied—who was that girl again? Dorea, Donna? _That_ Scarecrow?"_

"_Somewhat. No one's really sure, all we know is that this was a walking, talking Scarecrow. Maybe he was the one that accompanied that little lady, maybe he wasn't. Now, shush, I'm telling a story.")_

They were nice folk. The Scarecrow sometimes came into town, buying food and things for the woman who lived with him, and he was quite the gentle sort. The green-skinned woman, well, she didn't come by as much, but on the rare times she did, she was accompanied by the Scarecrow. They were a strange couple, to be sure, and rumors did fly about—a small town like this used to be in those days, rumors were everywhere—but no one bothered them.

Of course, Scarecrows don't age. They don't die. As the years passed, our Scarecrow stayed the same, but the woman grew older, till the townsfolk didn't see her around anymore and the Scarecrow came into town less and less.

And then one day...well, one day she died.

_("And the Scarecrow—what did he do?"_

"_I'm getting to that, I'm getting to that.")_

The Scarecrow decided to bury her. He went out into town, asked for a shovel and a gravestone, and then brought her out to the hill—the one you see when you look out the window here. He worked day and night, stopping only to replace his stuffing, and then he buried her, and put that gravestone up. My dad, he was always sure that one of my ancestors was responsible for putting the name there, 'cause that's all the green lady ever told them her name was.

The next day, one of the townsfolk saw him there, at the grave. He just stood there, for a long while, and then bent down and put a lily on the grave.

It happened every day—the Scarecrow would pick a lily from somewhere, no one was ever sure where he got them, and he'd trek up that hill and put it down. It was always a lily, and it was always white. For, oh, a hundred years or so, every day, like clockwork, he'd be there. He'd kneel down, put a lily on the grave, and then trudge off to Oz knew where. Over time, he started bringing along a watering can, too, and the lilies sprouted up and up till they covered the hill.

_("That's kind of depressing."_

"_Oh, be quiet, you. I'm just getting started.")_

Well, everything has to come to an end, and one day the Scarecrow...well, he didn't show up. The townsfolk were surprised, and the oldest person there died of shock because of it. He'd been coming to the grave for a long time now, and they knew nothing, not even rain, could stop him.

Fire, though—well, that's a little harder to get over. They never found the ashes, but they were sure he'd been set on fire. Maybe it was on purpose, maybe it was an accident, but whatever the case, it meant he couldn't lay lilies on the grave anymore, or water them either.

Days passed. The lilies would wilt soon enough, and the grave would weather away till it was nothing.

And then someone decided they couldn't let that happen. The Scarecrow couldn't do it, not anymore, but they could.

_("Are you—are you telling me they went out and laid a lily on the grave?"_

"_Exactly."_

"_Why?"_

"_Because that's what you do, for your own. And the Scarecrow and the green lady, they were part of the town. Now hush.")_

So, a brave young girl started looking for lilies. She found them at the old house, where the Scarecrow and the lady used to live. There was a garden of lilies, all white, all beautiful, and she knew that this garden was where the Scarecrow got his lilies.

So she picked one. Actually, she picked seven lilies, for each day that the Scarecrow hadn't been able to lay one at the grave. Then she headed up that hill, and put the lilies down on the grave.

That did it. The townspeople started cultivating their own lilies, because even the Scarecrow's garden only had a finite supply of lilies, now that its caretaker was gone, and they headed up the hill and put lilies on the grave. Somebody even planted a tree—local folklore says the one who planted it said, "Because lilies are good and all, but a tree lasts longer and gives shade."

_("Sweet of them to do that, for someone they never met."_

"_Like I said, the couple had become a part of the town. And the town looks after its own.")_

Oh, yes, there were times that some pig-headed folk thought it was a dumb thing to do. There were times that some hooligans decided it'd be great fun to screw around there. But every time someone tried to stop the tradition, every time someone tried to do something to the grave or to the lilies, something always happened. It was like someone had put a spell on the grave, so no one would disturb it or the lilies, and whenever somebody tried anything they ended up unconscious at the bottom of the hill, and the hill would be as beautiful as ever.

Someone always puts a lily on the grave. Sometimes we do it more than once. The way I see it, someone's got to.

* * *

"Did you ever put a lily there?" the man asks.

Verrus nods. "Quite a few times," he says. "I always thought there was an unearthly quality about that place. It was beautiful, the way most things in this world aren't."

"You keep saying that the woman buried there's a part of the town," the man says. "It's great and all, but—I don't know, would you change your tune if she wasn't...all that nice?"

Verrus shrugs. "There are rumors," he says, "but it doesn't really matter. If she was the Wicked Witch of the West, we'd all still lay lilies for her, because someone loved her. Someone mourned her."

"And that's enough?"

Verrus looks out the window, and says, "They say no one mourns the wicked, you know. Whoever Fae was—if she was a simple girl who just happened to be green-skinned, a servant, or even the Wicked Witch of the West—she wasn't wicked, not truly. Someone loved her enough to bury her, and to mourn her for as long as he could. The least we could do was lay a lily at her grave when he couldn't do it anymore."

"That's nice of you," the man says, looking out the window and at the hill. "I think the Scarecrow, whoever he was, would've been grateful."

There's a wistfulness in his tone that Verrus has only ever heard in those older than even he is. He squints at the man—no, he looks twenty-six, twenty-seven at the most. Sure, he could be a sorcerer, or any kind of magical practitioner, but there's no hat, no wand, no book, nothing that says "hi, I practice magic!"

"How old are you?" Verrus asks.

"Twenty-seven since last week," the man says. "Why?"

"Just curious." Verrus looks out the window again—the rain's starting to let up. "By the way, do you want to lay a lily on the grave?"

The man looks back at him. "Yeah," he says. "Except I haven't got a garden of lilies."

"Lucky for you," Verrus says, "I do. There are lilies in the back garden, but can you do me a favor and carry one for me as well when you go up there? I'm too old to make it up the hill, especially in this weather."

The man nods, as he stands up and takes the remains of his salad. "Sure," he says, as he moves towards the kitchen. "I'll do it."

Verrus smiles. "Thank you. Thank you so much, mister..." he trails off. "You know," he says, "I never got your name."

The man stops, and turns. "It's Yero," he says. "Just Yero."

* * *

He goes, that night, while the old innkeeper is asleep. If he remembers right and it isn't covered by lilies, there's a little pathway up to the hill, almost like stairs.

He's almost amused to note that some clever mayor made them into actual stairs, with a railing and everything. He climbs up, holding the twin lilies, and wonders how long has it been since he finally, _finally _remembered.

Who'd have thought that fire would've turned him back to (mostly) human but cost him his memories in the process? Certainly not Fiyero. And thank Oz for the townsfolk being kind enough to start up a tradition just for Elphaba, though he doubts they know. From the old man's opinions, he doubts they'd care.

_Someone loved her. Someone mourned her._

Immortality's never all it's cracked up to be. First, he was a walking, talking bag of straw, then he was an amnesiac human with no idea who he missed, and why he missed them. In both cases, Fiyero's seen so much that all he wants to do is to die, to see Elphaba again.

This, he supposes, is the closest he can get. At least for now, if he can find someone with enough power up their sleeve.

He steps on the pathway and smiles, helplessly, at the sight.

It is beautiful. There are lilies everywhere, a sea of white surrounding the grave and the tree standing over it, tall and sturdy, its leaves as green as Elphaba's skin. There's a store-bought bouquet of lilies already at her grave, courtesy, perhaps, of some little girl and her parents—the handwriting in the card is childish and colorful.

He kneels down, places the lilies on the grave, and says, "Hi, Fae."

He pauses. There's no sound, but that of the wind. Okay, fine, and maybe someone's drunken singing off in the distance, but it's not that loud. In fact the song's almost appropriate—_I'll cover you in a thousand sweet kisses_—and it's a shame it's an off-key rendition with missing words.

"I'm sorry I couldn't come," he says. "I just—I got lost. _Very_ lost, and for a very long time. I only managed to find my way back two years ago, and by then I was halfway around the world and everything had changed. Oz had changed. You know, a month ago I passed by the Emerald City—or, well, Glindellus City, anyway. Apparently they changed the name after Glinda died."

He huffs out a laugh, then draws his jacket tighter around himself to ward off the cold. If there's only one thing he misses about being a scarecrow, it's not feeling the cold.

"I saw a lot," he tells her. "Two hundred years or so, it's kind of hard not to. I've been traveling the world, just...not anywhere near here. I suppose you can blame me for picking the most remote town for us to live in, since I couldn't find it again. The newer maps have it as a tiny little dot out of the way of everything, can you believe it?"

The wind just blows. He wonders if it'll carry his words away, to wherever Elphaba is.

"I missed you," he confesses. "Even when I was lost, I _still_ missed you. And I miss you now, and I think I'll miss you for a long, long while."

"I missed you too."

He almost falls over in shock, turning around to find the girl from before, the one he'd almost bumped into on the way to the inn. Except...

Except, in this moonlight, she looks like Elphaba.

"Elphaba?" he asks.

The girl—_Elphie-Fabala-Fae-Elphaba_—smiles. Her skin isn't green, but it seems almost like it shines, in the moonlight. "It took you long enough to find this place again, Fiyero," she says. "And here I thought you were good at reading maps."

He almost knocks them both back down the hill, with how hard he throws himself at her, hugging her close. He's vaguely aware of talking to her, telling her he missed her and he loved her and they made a monument to her, did she see, of course she saw, it's a _hill_ covered in _lilies_, something like that's very hard to miss.

"Fiyero," she laughs, "Yero, slow down. And here I thought I was the one who never let anyone talk."

"Well, I'm so _sorry_ for being unable to contain how happy I am to see you again," he grumbles, letting go of her. "So—how? And how long?"

"I died," she says. "Then I was born again a few hundred years later. I remembered when I turned twenty-five, which was about two years ago." She shrugs, and says, "It took me a while to find this place again, and by then it had become somewhat obvious, thanks to this hill." She narrows her eyes at him. "Lilies, Fiyero? Really?"

"I figured you'd like it," he says. "_No one lays a lily on the grave of the wicked_, so I did."

She huffs out a laugh. "It's lovely," she admits. "A tad overdramatic, but it's beautiful." She wraps her arms around his neck, pulls him close, and kisses him.

He breaks away. "I've got a room at the inn," he says. "We could take it there."

"You know," she remarks, "for someone who says he's brainless, sometimes you have very good ideas."

* * *

**Do leave a review, and feel free to tell me what I did wrong and what I did right. Also, this was supposed to be depressing, but I think I accidentally turned it into fluff.**


End file.
